Thursday, June 30, 2011

In researching whether or not I had leprosy, I had an afternoon consult with Dr. Google, who happens to be my favorite medical professional. While determining the severity of my condition, an advertisement for a Vagina Tightening Cream popped up. Ladies, do you fear a loose vagina? In a click of the mouse, I veered from skin disease to vaginas and found a variety of creams on the market for this condition with names like Lady Secret Serum, Tighten Up, Like a Virgin and Oh So Tight. Isn't it time you recaptured your vagina's youth?

I don’t like to keep a good thing to myself so I called my sister who had never heard of this either. They say it feels like the first time, I told her. “You mean to tell me that someone has actually invented a cream that can make you feel terrified?” she asked. Yes, apparently this is so. In fact, a very satisfied customer named Judy wrote a glowing review that said, “Thank you for thinking of this. I even told my mother.” Judy told her mother? We decided that Judy must have a slut for a mother because I can guarantee you that if we sat at the Olive Garden with our mom eating breadsticks and salad and then asked her if she was loosey-goosey in Ladyland, it would flat out kill her. Then we’d have to call the rest of our siblings to tell them how dear old Mom met her maker and that could have serious repercussions in the inheritance department.

Charlie from Florida wrote, “OMG! This has done amazing things for my sex life.” Hey Charlie, didn't anyone ever tell you that women don't have sex with men that say OMG? It took some investigating to find any bad reviews, but I did come across this.........."This product tended to have a fishy smell."

For only $24.00 plus shipping and handling, you can feel eighteen again and smell like the Deadliest Catch. Now who could pass that up?

Wednesday, June 29, 2011

Throughout the jobs I've had over the years, I've worked with many single moms and gotten a taste of how difficult life is for many of them. A kid that needs dental work, a car in disrepair, a cut in hours or a dad late with child support means scrambling to make ends meet . It's regular life and it piles up all the time, but single moms don't have the luxury of a partner to lean on, so they juggle and sweat and pray their way through it.

I was watching news coverage of the floods in North Dakota, and a single mom with two kids has a house that is now part of the river, and she couldn't begin to speak of all she's lost. And flood insurance? She didn't have it. She played roulette and lost it all and we've all done that with far less dramatic results.

At church this past weekend, the refrain of the last song was.....and He will raise you up, and He will raise you up, and He will raise you up on the last day.

All I could thing about was that mom on the news and I hoped that God wouldn't wait to raise her up.

Tuesday, June 28, 2011

A few months ago, Oprah interviewed Barbara Streisand and asked her what was the hardest part of being married. She replied, "I find that I have to watch my tone."

I came home from the grocery store and told Big Daddy that food prices have gone thru the roof, Well, he wanted to know, how much would you say you spent when we first moved her. Like nineteen years ago? Yeah, what would you say our food bill was per week. I have no idea. What would you guess it to be? Idon't know what I spent on anything back then. But if you could guesstimate it, what would it total? Stilldon't know. Just a ballpark? I have no friggin' idea what our food cost in 1992 and you can ask me ten more times, but I still won't know it.

Sheesh, he can make me nuts in a heartbeat and Babs needs to scoot on down the Oprah couch and make some room. She's singing my song.

Monday, June 27, 2011

The beauty of having the kids home for the summer is having somebody around to unload the dishwasher. Because I haaaaaaaaate to do it. The other part of having the kids home for the summer is signs like this...........

This child had to get up and at 'em for a mid-morning appointment at 10:00, had a friend stop by for a visit, cleaned her room for twelve minutes and then needed a rest. I love the touch of Spanish there in the corner along with the different fonts. Creative, very creative. And the hair bands and bobby pins securing it all? Inventive use of common objects, saving an unnecessary trip downstairs to get tape. Makes me appreciate my hard-working tax dollars being used to educate this kid, since any thought of home-schooling is squashed faster than the skeeters.

Sunday, June 26, 2011

I ran into one of those moms the other day. The kind that thinks they're all that and a bag of chips as Teacher Girl says. She always was a sun worshiper, but holy Moses, it's caught up with her, if you know what I mean.

We each have a daughter the same age. Twelve years of school they were together. Twelve years of PTA meetings, ice cream socials, fun night, back-to-school night, orchestra concerts, open house, wrapping paper fundraisers, track meets and college night. So when I saw her I said, "Hey, how ya doing?" She looked right at me and there was absolutely no reaction or acknowledgment, no oh geez, it's been awhile since I've seen you. Nothing, like I wasn't even there standing two feet in front of her talking.

That's life in the Mom Kingdom when you're a lowly serf, and if I thought faster on my feet I would have said, "Oh, I'm sorry. I seem to have mistaken you for a pair of loafers I used to wear."

Saturday, June 25, 2011

To my Dad, who I miss always and who entered this world with a wink and a sparkle on this very day...........

There were so many people at my dad’s wake that the funeral home had to call the police to direct traffic. Neighbors and friends came, all of St. Jude’s came, the suits and hardhats from the Edison Company came, and his favorite nurse from the oncology unit came. When Lou saw me, she asked to get a cut to the front of the line and as we moved forward she said, “You should know that your parents handled all of this with grace and a sense of humor that we don’t see very often.” Yes, those two had quite the fan club.

Just two years earlier, I sat in the bleachers in Wrigley Field for a spring game while Mom and Dad were at an appointment to find out if the melanoma that started behind Dad's eye had moved on to other places. The Cubs won a squeaker that day and going home I thought maybe Dad could squeak by too, but that was not to be. What came next was months of chemo, scans, experimental drugs and a prescription with unlimited refills written for Uncertainty. There was plenty of that when I arrived from the East Coast with my three year old in May to stay and help out until my husband came back to get us in July. Dad didn’t have much energy and so we spent afternoons in the family room watching the Cubs.

I can’t remember a time when I haven’t loved baseball, but the ordinary habit of watching the game when all around us seemed to be a brewing crisis made me want to scream. “The bullpen sure could use some help, huh, Kate?” he’d ask. How was it that he could calmly remark about the bullpen when it was obvious that nobody needed more help than him? But I would sit with him while my daughter napped and it was a relief when she woke up and saved me from pretending that Dad wasn’t getting worse, because looky here, the sun is shining, the Cubs are holding their lead and all is right with the world.

By Labor Day when we returned, Dad had decided to stop his treatment and spent most of his days in bed with the game on, and what was sad in May became heartbreak in September. With summer nearly over, so, too, was my father’s life while Harry Caray and Steve Stone provided play-by-play in the background.

Before the sun came up on the morning of September 15th, Dad moved on. He had always been an early riser so it was fitting that he would slip from this world while it was still asleep and very quiet. Later that day, Chicago defeated St. Louis 6-2 and Dad would have been so proud that we beat the Cardinals in their own house. The Cubs would end the season in 5th place that year and three weeks after his death, I gave birth to a son who shares my father’s name.

What would be my longest, saddest summer drew to a close with a departing gift from Dad. When it seemed that hope had taken a sabbatical that year, he turned to baseball to show us the way to another day, another chance, another turn in the batter's box. I never returned to Wrigley Field after his death, but I keep track of our team and will cheer for them until the end of my days. My mom carries on these many years later with the same grace and humor that the oncology unit saw long ago, while faith moves this family of theirs forward, one inning at a time.

Thursday, June 23, 2011

I've got big hair. When it's summer, I've got really big hair. The humidity is like an inflatable device pumping my hair follicles. I hardly ever wash it because it gets so excited that it blows up even bigger. When I paint anything, it gets in my big fat hair because I don't allow for clearance, and it would be helpful to have a beeper like garbage trucks to warn me when my hair is backing into something.

I was making the bed and heard a buzzing in my head. Mother Ship. I hit myself in the head and it stopped for a second, but then started up again. I shook my head a couple of times, but that seemed to make it worse. Maybe I was having a stroke. I think I'm having a stroke about once a day. More when the Visa bill comes.

Turns out, all that buzzing was due to a fly being stuck in my hair. A fly that had probably cruised every pile of dog crap in the neighborhood was now in my hair. Oh, I know, it's disgusting. Once I figured that out I really went crazy, hopping around, screaming like a little girl and hitting my head. The varmint finally found the way out, but sheesh, I was sweating and hyperventilating and my head hurt from hitting it so much. I had to sit down and rest after that and then the damn Visa bill showed up in the mail and I should have called 911 as soon as the day started.

Wednesday, June 22, 2011

Mallie Bee has been slow to learn how to drive. It's fine by me because teaching a Fisher how to drive is MY LEAST FAVORITE THING TO DO. However, she's about to be a senior and needs to get crack-a-lackin. Her friend is taking a driver's ed class which has lit a fire under her, so she's been studying the driver's handbook in order to get her permit.

At dinner she asked us to start quizzing her. I started with the easy stuff about two cars getting to a stop sign at the same time and who has the right-of-way. The one not yapping on a cell phone. When merging, should you slow down, speed up or maintain your speed? Correct answer: Maintain your speed, but I slow down due to crippling merge anxiety. Orange signs signify what? Two lanes are closed, nobody's working and you're sitting in the front row for the movie.

Then the Boy Child asked how you identify someone blind in a crosswalk. Hmmmm......thinking capseveryone. And he says "by their white neckerchief." White neckerchief? I never heard of that. Oh yes, he says. It's in the handbook. Seriously? Yes, old mom who hasn't looked at the handbook in forty years, a white neckerchief means a blind person is crossing. Who the heck wears a neckerchief? Blind people, he says. How do they know which is the white one? Big Daddy weighed in on that one saying he's pretty sure it's a white cane and not a fashion accessory that identifies a blind person.

And the Boy Child thought it over and said oh yeah, maybe it is a white cane and not a white neckerchief after all. Miss Daisy looked at us like we have no idea what the hell we're talking about and it's no wonder she's in no hurry to take her driving test.

Tuesday, June 21, 2011

The Boy Child returned from his Excellent European Adventure, and driving to the airport I was about to jump out of my dry, crinkly skin I was so excited to see him. Out he comes into the terminal with his big 'ol smile and I swear he looks older, like a guy who's got a lot more confidence cuz he's gotten a taste of the fabulous world out there.

We stayed up until midnight while he passed out gifts and showed us the snaps he'd taken. How very British. In between I asked the mom questions. How did you sleep? Did you like the food? Did everybody get along? And then I asked this.......... were you constipated?

Big Daddy and Little Big Daddy were like WHAT THE WHAT? Why would you ask that? Geez, oh man, are you kidding me? Har, har, har, that's so dumb, Mom.

Ten years ago, we went to the beach in South Carolina for a week. I've got a whole album of snaps where I have a forced smile that is more like a highly-controlled grimace. My memories of that trip are of laying in the sun, day after day, trying to relax while being so constipated that I was more likely baking my bowels like a birthday bundt cake, making any movement of them impossible.

This is a picture of Big Daddy back in the day. Whoooooeeeeeee, I thought he was so cute.

Today is BD's birthday. He was born on the first day of summer which is fitting since he packs a whole lot of light into every day. He was a teeny weeny three pounds when he was born prematurely and ever since goes all out no matter what he does. It's what I love about him and what makes me crazy at the same time. Either way, going on that blind date date way back when was one of my smarter moves.

So to Mr. BD............Happy birthday. Happy year. Happy first day of summer.

Sunday, June 19, 2011

About ten years ago, we did some landscaping. I told Big Daddy that we should hire a landscape architect to draw the plans for us and we could do the work. Landscape architect? Little woman, he says, do you lay in bed at night and think of ways to spend money. Sometimes it's the only thing that takes my mind off my nighttime hotties.

When I have an idea to do something that involves BD's cooperation, I float it out there like a balloon. If he has an absolute fit, I don't do it. If he has a mild fit with muttering about how he needs another bike, I do it. How many bikes do you need, I mutter back. Lordy, don't ever let him decide to count my jeans. Ankle, skinny, cropped, wide, stretch, not stretch, dressy, not dressy........

When the landscaper came, I had a table full of pictures from magazines. I took her around my house. See, I said, it's cottagey and not perfect and my landscaping has to be like that. So you want a controlled chaos look, she says. Yes, yes, just like my hair. She drew us a plan and it took six years to finish. The first time we went to the nursery to buy bushes we had $300.00. In Nurseryville, that's really funny. We moved dirt until we couldn't lift our arms to even drink the beer we desperately wanted. If you want to know why landscaping is so expensive, try doing it yourself because it will beat you until all you can say in an itty-bitty voice is, "Mama, mama........help me.".

Was it worth it? Every time I walk out the door, I can't believe I get to live in this house.

Saturday, June 18, 2011

You might not know this, but Branson doesn't have a real book store. I wanted to buy a book while we were there and couldn't find one on the shopping center directory so I asked somebody working in one of the stores. She told me they have a Books A Million at one of the outlet malls and a Christian bookstore, but not a regular book store.

I went into the 5 & 10 that's been in business for fifty years. I've never seen such a selection of hairnets in one place. Light brown, medium brown, dark brown, blonde, red, black, auburn. You name the color and there's a hairnet for it. I did not even know that you could buy hairnets anymore.

But no books.

I saw my little ballerina doing this and bummed a book off somebody to make the time pass and someday I'll probably regret not buying myself a couple dozen of those hairnets.

There's this fancy shmancy thing you can do to post on your blog when you're gone. You set it up for the day and time you want it to post and it automatically does it. Oh, technology. Is so techie for me. It works like a charm unless you save it as a draft instead of publish and then your little plan goes poof.

Tuesday, June 14, 2011

Mallie Bee and I are going to Branson for a few days with her dance team for a national competition. Branson? Seriously? A few years ago when she got big into the dance thing, Big Daddy and I went to her first competition. Oh sweet Jesus in a leotard. It was like watching Toddlers and Tiaras and Tramps.

Big Daddy looked like he was either having an out-of-body experience or going to explode as we watched some of the most godawful dancing you can imagine. The highlight was when a couple of dads wheeled out a cage. With a kid inside. The music starts and she comes roaring out of the cage and her mom is behind us yelling, "WORK IT GIRL!!!!"

At the awards ceremony, Caged Animal Girl won a Sophisticated Gold. Nicely done pole dance routine. The sponsors of this dance cluster explained that some of the trophies were damaged in transit and replacement ones would be mailed. Big Mama with the tats says, "That's so ghetto." And I believe she would know what does and does not qualify as ghetto.

Big Daddy hasn't sat through an entire competition since so he won't be accompanying me. Too bad for him that he'll miss out on all the fun and what's sure to be an exciting evening when I go see Andy Williams and Yakov Smirnoff.

Monday, June 13, 2011

I have a white slip-covered sofa. People always tell me that they'd never have a white sofa, but once a month I throw that baby in the wash and problem solved. It's taken a hit from a glass of red wine and blueberry pie and came out just as purty as ever. I love when it comes out of the wash and is back on. Clean, white, perfect. I like it so much that I prefer nobody sit on it. Seriously. Could ya not sit on the big white thing in the living room that's meant to be sat in? Over the years, I've recognized this as obsessive-compulsive behavior. My dad one time scrubbed the hose because it was dirty, so amongst my people this is called weekend chores.

One day, I said to Big Daddy that this sofa smoothing was making me question my sanity. Do you think it's time for me to take the bus to Crazy Town? Nah, he says, I'm a little kooky with thewater thing. True that, as the youngins say. Our back yard looks like we're operating a commercial bucket farm with all the containers to catch water and that's with a rain barrel. I have no idea why he collects water. Or drops his undies by the front door. Or puts fish in the Cialis tub.

I'm a little concerned for the Big Daddy and he may score high on the Nut Chart, but the cat just walked across the sofa and I've got to smooth the paw prints he just put in the thing or I will have some sort of anxiety attack that will require a pill. Some days nursing my own mental illness leaves me no time to nurse anyone else.

Sunday, June 12, 2011

Big Daddy goes biking every Saturday and Sunday morning in the wee hours with his buddies. They ride fast. Big Daddy likes fast. Makes him feel like he's not a geezer. Like he's got some gas in the tank and some man in the manhood. When he comes home, he thumps his chest and says "Did 42 miles today." Wow, I say back. I doubled that at Target.

I rarely hear him leave as I'm still dreaming away about distributing my Lotto win. When I get up, though, the coffee is made and ready for some sippin' along with some newspaper reading. When I went to let the cat in this morning, this was by the front door.

Those would be Big Daddy's underpants. Either he was in a hurry to get into his bike gear and out the door or Jesus has called him home.

Thursday, June 9, 2011

Last year, Big Daddy and I drove to western Kansas so he could meet up with a group of bikers from our church that were doing a cross-country bike ride to raise money and awareness for poverty. We drove out on a Wednesday, BD would ride with them for three days and I'd drive home the following day.

We ate dinner with our friends, came back to the motel and swatted flies before trying to go to sleep. Farm country + heat = flies. The bikers left at 7:00 a.m. the next day and I left shortly after that. About 45 minutes into my ride home, the car decelerated and I had to pull over. I was in the middle of fricking nowhere with no cell phone. I contemplated my options (none) and started the car up. I drove about five more miles when the same thing happened but I was close to a truck stop and coasted into the parking lot. I used their phone to call Roadside Assistance and after an hour wait, got into a tow truck to ride to Marysville. I asked my new friend working at the truck stop to tell my biking husband what happened to me and that I was headed to town, should he stop by. While on the way to town, the left rear brake on the tow truck started smoking.

We got to Marysville and once they found out I had a hybrid, they wouldn't even look at the car. I called Roadside Assistance again and was told to have the car towed to Manhattan which was 60 miles away. The tow truck driver had to take my car off that truck since it was having problems and put it on another. While he was doing that, I look up and see BD riding around looking for me so I wave him down. He gives me his cell phone, meets the tow truck driver who also loves to bike, and they exchange info on tires, gloves, jerseys and mph. Keep chatting it up you guys and don't you worry a bit about my looming nervous breakdown. My new BF and I get to the next dealership at noon. I'm scheduled to be at work by 3:00 so I call Mallie Bee to tell her what's been going on and for her to call the store and tell them that I'd be there as soon as I could.

I sat down in the service department waiting room that was full of customers and a woman in a housecoat is sitting there swatting flies. I swear to God I'm not making any of this up. One by one, customers start leaving when their cars are repaired and I'm left alone until some old guy comes in with a Hardee's bag. I give him the look. I don't care if you eat fast food, just make it at a fast food restaurant instead of subjecting the rest of us to the smell. He took the look to mean I wanted to chat.

Turns out he was of the tea party persuasion and mistook my boredom for interest in his opinion about everything. Forty-five minutes into his yapping, I picked up Car and Driver magazine and put it in front of my face and he still keeps going on about socialism. Betcha can't even spell it, Mr. Lipton. Finally, I got up, picked up the fly swatter and started beating the shit out of flies. I'm smashing 'em like I'm playing Whack-A-Mole at the carnival and I am aware that I am losing it and I don't care.

The service writer interrupts my swatting to inform me that I need a new water pump and they don't have it in stock. What a surprise. Since the car was under warranty, they would take me to Hertz to pick up a rental car. I gathered my stuff and Mr. Tea Partier says, "It was a pleasure talking to you. I believe I was merely a listener in this two-way. Now you have a nice day." A nice day? I was way past a nice day and harbored no fears of the fires of hell cuz I'd been in them since I got out of the fly bed.

Ten hours after I left that motel and two hours past my start time, I got to work and the owner didn't speak or look at me for two hours. My friend came by and said what in the hell happened, I've been worried about you all day. I love my friends. Then You Know Who pretended to be straightening a rack of clothes close by so she could hear the whole story, because until then, she only cared that I was late.

By that point it was 8:00 p.m. and all I wanted to do was go home, take a hot bath and go to bed. Well, that's not completely accurate. This day of all days could have been much worse had a truck stop employee and tow truck driver not went out of their way to help me out. They were strangers, my employer was not. As tired as I was I still had a little of the bat-shit crazy left in me, and if there was a fly swatter in that upscale little boutique of hers, I'd have whacked her moley, little head.

Wednesday, June 8, 2011

A few days ago, we attended Mallie Bee's dance recital. I believe I've been to about fifteen of these, first with Teacher Girl and now the Beester. We love watching the kids, from itty bitty ones to the older girls. Over the years, it has become apparent that Mal is pretty good at this dance thing, but I am highly prejudiced so that is a biased opinion. The last three years she has danced on the competitive team and though she has always been shy, put her in some jazz, tap or ballet shoes and she explodes on the stage.

This has been an expensive endeavor for us to undertake. I'd like to say I've been a supportive mother through it all, but that would be bullshit. We've never had one of our kids get to this level and the financial commitment has been a continuous drain on our bank account. Some months, both my paychecks went to dance expenses and I'd make sure she knew it, because you're not a mother unless you've learned how to pass out guilt like treat bags at a birthday party. Last year, I decided to let that go. If she was serious about this (and she was) then I needed to suck it up and be happy I had a kid who'd rather hang out at a dance studio than anywhere else.

At this year's recital, Mal was awarded the studio scholarship. For the next year, she will be able to take all the classes she wants at no charge. The award is given in memory of Rebecca Wright, a dance instructor who died at the age of 22 from cystic fibrosis. She left her mark with many and Mal was lucky to have her as a teacher. That girl of ours cried and cried when she got it. To be recognized by your instructors for your passion and commitment is incredible. To be recognized in the name of someone you adored is overwhelming, and I've no doubt that Becca's spirit will be perched on Mal's shoulder during this next year.

I wish I could rewind some of my guilt trips and be the kind of mother she deserved all along when it came to this passion of hers. I got to the party later than I should have, but have learned that whether it's art, writing or dance, creativity has to be nurtured and the cost of getting there gets paid back in a thousand different ways.

Tuesday, June 7, 2011

We moved to Kansas City from the Washington D. C. area with a five year old and a two year old. We rented for awhile before we bought this house so our little Teacher Girl went to kindergarten in one school and then 1st grade in another. I did not know a soul when we moved here. Combine that with being a stay-at-home mom and it's a recipe for loneliness.

One day I got to the school a little bit early and let Boy Child work off some energy on the playground equipment. I noticed a group of women chatting nearby and recognized them as 1st grade moms. Oh, if only I had a group of people to talk to. After a few minutes, one of them walked over to me. Maybe today I'm going to make a friend. Instead she said to me, "You need to get him off of that. It's for kindergartners only." She walked away and I took a wailing two year old off the playground, and if I weren't being watched so intently I would have wailed with him.

Over the years, I had these kinds of encounters with these kinds of moms all the time. THEY TALK REAL LOUD SO EVERYONE KNOWS THEY'RE IMPORTANT AND THEY'LL SAY THAT THEY HAVE GOT TO GET THEIR HIGHLIGHTS DONE, THEY'RE GOING TO THE CLUB FOR DINNER, BUFFY MADE THE TENNIS TEAM, JR. IS TAKING PRIVATE VIOLIN LESSONS THREE TIMES A WEEK, OF COURSE WE'RE GOING TO CANCUN FOR SPRING BREAK, DID YOU SEE MY NEW TENNIS BRACELET THE HUSBAND BOUGHT ME TO GO WITH THE NEW SUBURBAN, I KNOW HE'S THE BEST, AND I'M TALKING TO THE PRINCIPAL ABOUT THAT MRS. SO-AND-SO IN 4TH GRADE WHO MAKES BABY SHUT HIS PIEHOLE SO SHE CAN TEACH. It's impossible to ignore them even though they're experts at ignoring you.

It took me longer than I ever expected to make any friends that were of like mind, but I did and I also extended myself to anyone new that came to that school cuz God knows they needed somebody on their team. The friends I made back then are still my friends because instead of working on maintaining fake, we work on maintaining fun.

Sometimes I see those mean moms in the grocery store and would rather read an ingredient list on a bag of ice than make eye contact with them. However, if the day ever comes that our carts have a stand-off in frozen foods, I'm going to look Mrs. Self-Absorbed in the eye, smile and say what I should have said 18 years ago..........

Monday, June 6, 2011

Nancy and I had a really good sale. We saw old friends and neighbors, we sold a bunch of our stuff and we made some new customers. It was an incredible amount of work but when you get to be creative and make some money at it, it's good work. Behold the photos of the day.........

Why, oh why did I sell that scale? Boo hooey :(

Nancy made the Mr. & Mrs. pillows. Aren't they cute?

Chalkboard sold, cart sold, stool sold, folding chairs sold.

The Adirondack chair was the first thing sold. The barrel the second.

Nearly all of these pillows sold.

That's Nancy folding material. Her son made the flag artwork that Big Daddy and I bought.

Sunday, June 5, 2011

Or if you're not from Chicago, you would say hundred. Ya think da Cubs can win a hunnerd this year? It must be a hunnered degrees out dere. This would be my hunnerdth post. I bet someone is putting the finishing touches on a party for me right now. Maybe with a hunnerd balloons. Or a hunnerd cupcakes. Or filling an envelope with a hunnered bucks.

I initially wanted this blog to be called Party of One. That's what Big Daddy says to me all the time when I crack myself up. He'll say, "Kathy, party of one. Kathy, party of one." That blog name was taken so I decided on A Speckled Trout after my dad,who always called me that.

Over the weekend, several people told me that they love reading this blog. They read it every day and they're not my mom or my husband. Since the point in doing this was to get my writing out there to be read, I don't know why I'm always surprised to hear that, but I am. Every single time. Surprised and so touched that my throat catches and I have to work hard at not crying. #100 is a shoutout to you for taking the time to stop by here and then taking the time to tell me. I threw a paycheck away to find out if I was any good at this and on a dailyhourly minute-to-minute basis, I question that decision. Today I will eat a cupcake and simply be thankful.

Thursday, June 2, 2011

In case I haven't told you a bazillion times, BD and I are from Chicago. We heart it. We miss it. We love going home to it. We cheer all its teams. We check the temps there. We cared more about Rahm Emanuel becoming mayor than the race here in Kansas City. Oh, so in our blood. Enjoy these sweethearts and their very good song..................

Wednesday, June 1, 2011

With the BIG SALE ON SATURDAY, I need to focus my attention on all the details to make this a smashing success. Nancy's coming tomorrow and we'll be sorting and grouping our stuff. It is the best we've ever done so if you're in the area, stop by and see what we've been up to. If you're not close by, get on a plane. Right now. Hurry. Don't even pack anything. You'll need an empty suitcase for all the stuff you're gonna want to buy. No joke, it's cute to the max. Winkety wink. See ya next week............